Plank Factor Page 4

  I rapped on the door. No answer. I tried again. Nothing. On impulse, I tried the knob. Unlocked, but that wasn’t unusual. Many Boulder residents don’t bother locking their doors during the day. I started inside, calling Fred’s name, but stopped short when a horrible stench overwhelmed me. Then I saw the wreckage. Someone had fucked the place up good. My jaw dropped involuntarily. I stood there until I spotted bare feet extending out from the kitchen.

  I charged in without thinking. Fred was on the floor face up. His skin was waxy, his brown eyes vacant. Head resting in a pool of blood, his smooth brow was marred only by a small hole. Bending over, I felt bile rise in my throat.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kevin

  Now that Fred was out of the way, it left the group wide open to do what it would. However, there was still the novelist to deal with. Did Jessica know anything and would it end up in her book? He had to find out. Even if she hadn’t written it into the plot, her knowledge was dangerous to the group.

  Kevin felt woozy from the drugs. Nonetheless, he knew the group’s plans took precedence over even an innocent life.

  Sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Joe

  The van crawled up the hill, keeping a safe distance from Jessica’s Dodge Dart. Cotter slowed and pulled over, as Jessica parked and got out.

  “She’s heading to the apartment.” Billy spoke in a high-pitched singsong.

  Cotter grunted.

  Billy shook his head. “Man, she’s gonna run now.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best.”

  Billy stared at him. “But what about . . . .”

  “Billy.” Cotter struggled to keep his voice low and even. “What did I tell you before?”

  Billy’s face furrowed in thought. “If she runs, we follow?”

  “Right.”

  “And the others?”

  Cotter raised a hand and dropped it. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “So . . . just keep watching her for now?”

  Cotter looked at Billy. “You catch on quick, Sport.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jessica

  I felt the room spin at the sight of Fred’s corpse. Seeing him dead was like a punch in the gut. From the sight of his pants, it was obvious the stench wasn’t just from bodily deterioration. He’d emptied a full bladder and moved his bowels upon death.

  The sewage smell was overbearing, so I stepped back outside, gulping the fresher air in the hallway. I shut the door behind me, but the foul odor lingered in my nostrils.

  The door across from me opened, and I jumped. I gaped as an old woman came out. She had disconcertingly light blue eyes embedded in wrinkled flesh, and her head was topped with a shock of gray hair. Wrapped in a tattered pink robe, she jangled a set of keys in one palsied hand and held a tissue in the other.

  “Are you all right?” Her voice sounded quivery and nasal.

  “I . . . I’m okay.” I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about Fred yet. Let alone a little old lady in a pink robe in a hallway where I didn’t even want to be.

  The old woman gave a vague nod, shuffled toward the steps, and descended them, keys jingling all the way.

  I stared at the Fred’s door and tried not to think of what was behind it. Fred had been acting peculiar, but he hadn’t struck me as suicidal and I hadn’t seen a weapon. So why would someone kill Fred? What did Cynthia mean when she said it might have something to do with me?

  I considered calling the police, but frankly, I didn’t want to get involved. I could call in an anonymous tip from a phone booth. Assuming I could still find one. Could they trace the call, if I made it from my cell? Besides, the cops couldn’t bring Fred back to life.

  I felt dizzy. I backed away from the door, hands raised as if to ward off evil, my thoughts reeling. When did this happen? Who was the last to see him alive?

  I followed the old woman down the stairs and caught up with her near a row of mailboxes.

  “I’m trying to find your neighbor, but he’s not home. When was the last time you saw him? The young man living across from you?”

  She blinked slowly, seeming to consider this. “I don’t know. Sometime last week, I guess.”

  “Have you seen any strange people around here?”

  She barked a laugh. “This town is full of strange people. And a few of them live here,” she said, fumbling to insert the key in one of the mailboxes.

  It was grasping for straws, but I had to ask. “Have you noticed a dark van hanging around the parking lot lately?”

  She swiveled round to face me. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Or two men in tan jumpsuits?”

  She shook her head as she removed a fistful of mailers and catalogs from the box. I was leaving when I heard her say, “Unless you mean the delivery men.”

  “Delivery men?”

  “Sure. They wore tan jumpsuits. One of them had a clipboard. Figured it was to sign for deliveries. Thought they were bringing me a Snuggie I ordered weeks ago.”

  “An older man and another one with red hair?”

  She smiled. “Yes, one of them was a redhead. I’ve always thought red hair looks strange on men.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and turned to leave.

  “Is something wrong?” she called after me.

  “Not a thing. Thanks for your help.” I rushed to the car.

  I could barely keep my hands on the wheel for their shaking. What to do? Call the police? There’d be questions. Another report. Did I want to get involved? Would the killers come after me, if I did? Would the cops suspect me? It happened and not just in mystery novels.

  I wanted to go home and think, but the coincidence about the so-called delivery men seemed to suggest it was the last place I should be. If they had killed Fred, why hadn’t they killed me?

  I pulled over long enough to retrieve my cell phone and place a call to 911.

  A woman answered. “Nine-one-one. Please state the nature of your emergency.”

  “Please send the police to 8111 Mountain Road,” I said. “Apartment 3A.”

  “What’s wrong? What is the nature . . . .” I disconnected her in mid-sentence. I’d done right by Fred, without getting further enmeshed in whatever was up.

  Putting the phone away, I drove and considered my situation. If the cops didn’t think the phone calls and note were threatening, what would they say about my being at a murder scene? Perhaps I’d be better off leaving town for a while.

  I tried to calm down, but my foot was heavier than it should have been. I took the turn onto the main road toward my place so fast the car skidded nearly to the curb. At this rate, I was well on my way to killing myself. I glanced in the rear-view mirror just to make sure that Boulder’s finest hadn’t noticed my recklessness.

  Then I saw the dark van, turning off the same side street, heading my way. And everything wasn’t fine again.

  Could it be the same van? I made an impromptu turn at the next side street and punched the gas to get some distance between me and the main road. I stopped and waited, watching the intersection in my rearview mirror. In a matter of moments, the van appeared and rounded the corner. I pulled a right turn, executing a series of maneuvers highly unlikely to be taken by anyone who wasn’t following me. A couple of times I thought they’d gone elsewhere or I’d lost them, but they always reappeared. To their credit, they kept a respectful distance—I’d probably never have noticed them if I hadn’t been looking—but I wasn’t able to lose them either.

  Rather than go home, I headed back to Pearl Street. I needed to come up with a plan. The last thing I wanted was to return home alone with this van on my tail.

  I pulled into the first spot I saw near the Pearl Street Mall, a popular pedestrian mall. I got out and looked around. Couldn’t see the van, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t nearby. Glancing around, I strode toward the mall and plunged in among the milling people. I hustled thr
ough the throng, despite having no destination. Anxious to get lost in the crowd. (Like Swede had said in my book? Too weird.) I needed time to think.

  I’d joined a group of people clustered around a juggler, when I caught a glimpse of a red-haired man walking toward my car. He appeared to be the one I’d seen yesterday morning outside my place. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans this time. He pointed toward my car. The older man with him, a tall, middle-aged guy with a graying flattop, also dressed casually, scowled and ignored him, scanning the crowd like the spotlight from a watchtower.

  I should’ve walked away then, but I froze in place, staring at them. The older man’s spotlight gaze swept around, until it locked with mine. His expression never changed, but the spark of recognition in his eyes told me I’d been made. He tapped the younger man’s arm, nodded and moved into the crowd.

  I pushed my way out of the group, drawing several annoyed glances and one exasperated, “Ouch! Watch it!”

  “Sorry,” I called over my shoulder. Whatever I’d done, I had no time for extensive apologies. All I could think of was to find a place to hide. Quickly.

  “Jess!”

  I didn’t have to look to recognize the voice. Cynthia again. What were the odds I’d see her twice in one day? Not that long, actually, given Boulder’s small size. I pretended not to hear and kept going.

  “Jess! Hold on!”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped, not sure who I’d see. Cyn stood there, wearing that scarf of hers and looking annoyed.

  “I was just a few feet from you. Didn’t you hear me?”

  This opened the door to a host of potential sarcastic replies. But I said, “I’m sorry. I’m a bit preoccupied.”

  Cyn eyed me for a moment, then chuckled. “It’s that novel, right? Were you gripped with inspiration? Communicating with your muse?”

  I wanted to tell her that the only thing inspiring me at the moment was fear and that my muse, if I had one, never deigned to call on me. “Just thinking.” I grabbed her arm. “Would you like to have something to eat? My treat.”

  Cyn’s mouth dropped open. “Sure!”

  Scanning the crowd for any sign of the Dynamic Duo—and finding little comfort in not seeing them—I steered us toward the nearest restaurant, a trendy pizza place on the corner. Cyn was babbling something and I tried to smile and nod at the right points. I glanced over my shoulder once more before ducking into the restaurant. Caught a glimpse of Red and his friend, Flattop, heading in our direction.

  The restaurant was in the usual lull between lunch and dinner, so the place was nearly empty. We were seated right away at a table against the wall. Needless to say, I sat with my back toward it.

  “I don’t normally eat pizza,” Cyn said. “So many carbs.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She pointed at me and wrinkled her nose. “But, in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

  “Good.”

  As I flipped through the menu, the two men wandered in. Given the few others present, it didn’t take them long to make me. I ducked behind the menu. What did these guys want?

  Cyn kept chattering, but nothing registered. Eventually, she gave me a pointed look.

  “You are distracted, aren’t you?”

  “Just a little.”

  She closed her menu and placed it before her. “Jess, you know what your problem is?”

  It was a rhetorical question.

  “You’re so wrapped up in yourself. People in your life are like props, placed there to serve you.”

  The two men took a table.

  “I’m sorry if I seem that way. I’m going through a difficult time.”

  She dismissed me with the wave of a hand. “It’s always something, Jess.” She paused. “God knows, Fred feels that way, too.”

  The mere mention of Fred’s name made my pulse race. I wanted to reach across the table and grab her by her stupid scarf. “What do you know about how Fred feels?” I still spoke of him in the present tense.

  Cyn bestowed a pitying gaze. “He’s never told you this, and it’s really not my place to say anything.”

  “Just tell me!” I was ready to scream, but added, “Please.” To be polite.

  She sighed and shook her head. “He cares about you, Jess. Really cares and you . . . well, you’ve never cared back.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, he’s never brought it up.”

  “He’s tried, but . . . .you never let him.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You shut him out. Fred says you’re cordial, but never open with him. You hold him at arm’s length and never let him get close.”

  I didn’t want to have this discussion. Not now and not with Cyn. I needed to find out who killed Fred and whether that person would be gunning for me next.

  “Cyn, I never picked up that kind of vibe from Fred, okay? I know he’s a caring guy and all. He’s helped me a lot. Maybe if he’d said something to me . . . .” My voice trailed off. Could that be what he’d wanted to meet about? It felt sad, not only because I’d never felt more than friendship toward Fred, but knowing that conversation would be impossible now.

  Cyn leaned toward me. “The guy would die for you, Jess.” She relaxed back in her chair and studied the menu again, shaking her head. “Love like that doesn’t come along every day.”

  Her words knocked the breath right out of me. Could Fred have been killed because of me? I felt sick.

  “Excuse me a moment.” I pulled myself to my feet and searched for the restrooms.

  Cyn glanced up, then did a second take. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “I’m fine. I just need to . . . to use the bathroom. Be right back.”

  I stumbled through the maze of tables toward the short hallway with the little hand-carved wooden sign marked “Restrooms,” pointing the way with an ornate arrow. I could feel Flattop follow my progress.

  I pushed through the ladies’ room door and launched myself at the row of sinks. The wave of nausea that had threatened to overcome me began to subside but not completely. Turning one of the taps, I splashed cold water on my face, drenching my shirt collar.

  Snatching a couple of paper towels from the holder, I dried myself off. Okay, now what?

  I had a crazy thought. What would Alexis do in this situation?

  “Great,” I muttered. “I’m asking my own fictional characters for advice.”

  A cursory scan of the bathroom revealed a small window. Small, but not too small to squeeze through.

  Do it now. Cynthia might eventually wonder if I fell in and check up on me. Plus I still needed to shake Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee.

  So I hurried to the window—a pair of tall, rectangular panes latched shut by an aging lock with a long, curved handle. I grabbed the handle and tried to pull it up. It was stuck in place.

  I smacked it repeatedly with the heel of my hand. At first, I thought I was getting nothing but a bruised hand. Finally, the latch gave, but only a fraction of an inch.

  Next I sat on the floor, leaned back on my forearms (ugh!), placed my foot under the handle and kicked as hard as I could. It moved! I kicked it again and again until the latch gave way.

  I pushed the window open with a rusty squeal, threaded one leg after the other through and shimmied out into an alley.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jessica

  The fact that Alexis and Swede ended up crawling out a bathroom window in order to escape the strange people in the van parked outside their motel room, was an irony not lost on me. After I fled down the alley and made my way back to my car, I went straight home and threw a few essentials into a small bag.

  I wanted to get as far out of town as possible. I’d have to dip into my small savings and rely on Visa for the rest, but I had to get away from those men. The police couldn’t act as my personal bodyguards, and Fred was dead—beyond anyone’s help now. I considered my parents, who lived in the Bay Area, but I didn’t want to go runni
ng home, possibly bringing trouble with me. And San Francisco didn’t seem far enough away.

  My sister, on the other hand, was across the country in Washington, D.C. She was a lawyer, so trouble was her business. However, it had been nearly a year since I’d last spoken to Liz. She and our parents weren’t on the best of terms. I could only hope she wouldn’t perceive my visit to her as an imposition. After mulling my other options (which didn’t take long, as there were none), I called Liz, tapping my fingers as her phone rang. “C’mon, c’mon . . . pick up.”

  The ringing stopped, and I groaned as her recorded voice requested that I leave my name, number, and a brief message.

  At the beep, I said, “Liz, it’s me, Jess. I’m coming out there on the first plane I can catch. It’s . . . it’s hard to explain. But call my cell as soon as you get this message.”

  When I’d closed my bag, I quickly booted up my laptop and checked an online site for same-day flights to D.C. After that was squared away, I’d call Shelley and tell her I had to leave town because of a family emergency. The emergency part was true, anyway.

  I stored my laptop and flash drive in their carrying case. Like Alexis, I intended to hold onto these items like grim death. I’d spent way too much time working on my novel to leave it behind.

  I put my old Dodge into overdrive, rocketing down US 36 to get to the airport in time to inch through the security line.

  As I snaked toward the TSA folks, I glanced about looking for the redhead and his taller companion. Surely, they couldn’t have followed me here. Could they? I checked my watch with OCD frequency, as the line crawled along. By the time I made it through the metal detector, I had 15 minutes to get to the gate.

  Hastily re-tying my shoes and cramming cords and accessories back into my laptop case, I snatched up my purse, laptop, and carry-on bag and half-ran, half-stumbled toward the train that would take me to Concourse B. Luckily, I was able to leap aboard just before the doors closed.

  I collapsed onto a seat, allowing my baggage to droop to each side, and tried to catch my breath, although the occasional snippets of carnival music they played on the train were hardly relaxing. As we rolled into the concourse, I checked my watch again. Nine minutes—yikes!